


12 Steps With an Angel

by Harleyreadit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bartender Castiel (Supernatural), Check out my end notes for more fics, Dean Winchester Works in an Office, Drunk Dean Winchester, Heavy Angst, Jessica Moore is here??? Somewhere??, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Possible Slow burn, full length fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2019-11-08 09:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17979131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harleyreadit/pseuds/Harleyreadit
Summary: A five-year cycle of going between the bar stool and an office chair leads Dean closer and closer to the edge. Cas, the bartender, maybe the only one who can keep him on his feet.





	1. Chapter 1

The alarm called out at seven-thirty for the usual routine. The room spun with a drummer in the back of Dean's head when he sat up to turn it off.

"One foot..." He began to say aloud but found that his head hurt a little too much for his own voice this early in the morning. He didn't bother with to turn the lights on in the bathroom as he stripped down from his clothes for a hot shower. He stood under the water for several minutes, letting the icy water jolt him back alive the best it could. The hot water never came and he was too tired to curse the bill. He did his business, knocking over bottles in the process as he was again too tired to curse that bill too; though he was able to curse the shaving cream when it fell onto his toes.

He got out of the shower and picked up a towel from the floor, wrapping it around his waist as he did so. He looked into the shadowed mirror and groaned. The bags under his blood-shot eyes were too heavy to hide today, but at least the cold water helped the swelling of his face some. He hoped with a shave that he'd look a little better but found that his hands trembled a little too hard to trust himself. He slathered on some deodorant, hoping that it really was twenty-four-hour protection, and went to his dresser to get something on.

He groaned again when he realized that he had forgotten to do laundry again and proceeded to the smell test. He found a pair of briefs that didn't smell like hell and sprayed some cologne in the crotch. He told himself that a Tuesday this bad was worth the slob points when he did the same thing to the least deodorant streaked shirt. Pants were easy as they were always the first to come off for the night so they never got mucked up.

He stumbled his way into the kitchen looking for at least a bottle of water. He was able to start a pot of coffee but found that nothing else in his kitchen was worth eating. He made a mental note to clean out the fridge and go grocery shopping. He plopped down at his table, sipping from a dirty mug making another note to wash dishes.

Bad Tuesday.

He decided not to risk the Impala; after all, she was the only thing in order in his life that still had meaning. He called an uber instead. Standing at the curb of his suit, Dean felt his weight shift involuntarily and he began to wonder if he wasn't just sick. The sun beaming directly into his eyes was the only thing keeping him awake. Definitely just a bad Tuesday. The uber arrived and Dean muttered out the memorized address of the office. He shielded his tired eyes from the sun for the twenty-minute ride to protect the hot-tempered drummer in the back of his skull.

"So, fun night?" the driver tried to make conversation, but when Dean didn't answer, the memo wasn't sent. "Where did you go? Meet anyone interesting?"

"Shut it." Dean barked before cradling his temples, rubbing gentle circles into them as he ducked his head onto the back of the head rest.

"You should drink some water when you get the chance, might ease the pain." The driver commented and fell silent after that. The rest of the car ride was agony with or without the uber driver's commentary and questions.

He arrived on time, as usual, and waved at the security desk as he passed as though he cared enough to say hello. He didn't even see if there was anyone there, but frankly, he didn't care. The elevator was nice. It wasn't too bright or too loud and he could always lean on the back wall. It was usually the best part of being at the workplace. But it was all downhill from there. The elevator stopped and let him off on the floor where his cell sat. He trudged passed his starring co-workers, feeling his stomach weigh in. It wasn't anxiety or anything, it was just the fact that he was sick. He flopped down at his desk and signed into the computer so his hours could be tracked. He slipped the headset on and shuffled through the files that heaped the majority of his desk. The files didn't help his headache, so he turned to the computer and began to check emails, accounts, and accident reports. He furrowed his brow as he looked at the dates. Today was Tuesday but the date on the reports was supposed to be from on Thursday of this week. He checked the calendar and smiled. He didn't realize that it was only a day away from Friday.

He spent the next two hours shifting between the tax forms in the files and the accident reports on his screen without actually contacting anyone. The best he did was figure out that he completely missed the Wednesday workload and match the names. His head was starting to hurt like a bitch by the time he put them in order. He decided to grab another cup of coffee in a failed attempt to soothe his head. Coffee always helped these sort of days in one way or another. A coworker, Karen walked in shortly after him. She was nice enough to be invited to both professional and private parties, but there was always something snoopy about her. She smiled at Dean and walked over with her mug to the coffee pot.

"Good morning, Dean," she waited for a response, but continued as she put sugar and creamer in when she didn't receive one, "How are you feeling today?"

"Fuck off." He took a sip and closed his eyes, the light was beginning to bother him again. Or maybe it was just Karen.

She snapped her head to make eye contact, her mouth gaped open, "Excuse me?" Her voice was clearly in the tone that told him that he had better think of a way to apologize asap. But to no avail, he didn't care. His entire body felt like hot garbage on a hooker's bed.

"Fuck. Off." He took another sip and only opened his eyes to move past her. She didn't say anything else to him after that, but word quickly got around and everyone was once again starring at him. He returned to his desk and finished his coffee there.

He starred at the screen for a while, reading the reports from Wednesday. Drunk drivers, distracted drivers, and just simply stupid drivers were to blame for most of the reports. He looked at the files and sighed heavily at them. He's been here for several hours now, and none of them had been approved for further analysis of their Insurance Agent. Dean pulled out his punch stamp and allowed the ones who were hit by distracted and drunk drivers to collect on the insurance policy and signed his name near the line (so he thought). The ones who were clearly the idiot, he didn't have the patience for. He denied the rest of collecting and moved on to the workload for today. He laid his head down on the desk, feeling the cool plastic soothe his puffy face. He hated Insurance. He hated taxes. He hated police reports and everything in between. He wasted the last five years on this dump and the least they could do was stop being so fucking stupid behind the wheel. He sighed heavily, feeling his morning breath wave over his face. The smell of last night and coffee never failed to make him regret his life choices. He lifted his head and refrained from laughing at himself. It was never the mess in his wake, it was the breath that handed over the evidence on God's doorstep that let shame through the front door.

Dean rummaged through his desk for a moment before pulling out a bottle of blue mouth wash. With a quick swig, he got back to work. Thursday didn't have a chance against his headache. He went through the same process, but a little more carefully. Not exactly. Dean just looked for red flags in the victims and denied the idiots. It didn't take as long as he thought it would, but it wasn't easy with the light directly overhead and everyone around him watching him and his bottle of mouth wash. Eventually, he got through his stack, he always did, even if it was a day late and a dollar short. He took the files and walked over to his supervisor, Crowley or Mr. MacLeod depending on the day and event. His supervisor looked up with amusement written on his face.

"Are those for me?" He had a thick British accent that would give Dean chills if he didn't feel so shitty. Dean would put money that he made his voice purposely husky to attract anyone and everyone in the office.

"Yesterday and today, sir." Dean couldn't help but spit his sirs. It wasn't anything particularly against his boss, it was just everything about him that made Dean want to punch him in his sexy smile.

"Beautiful," he praised with a playful smile that did not at all match the setting, "tell me, Mr. Winchester, why is that I'm getting complaints about your attitude from Karen and, well," he paused for drama, "everybody?"

It a deep breath to regain his self-control, he didn't like his job, but it was money, "I'm having, what you call, "he regretted mocking the dramatic pattern and took another deep breath, " a bad day."

MacLeod hummed, leaning back in his chair as though he were evaluating the edibility of Dean Winchester, "Interesting. So, a bottle of Listerine helps soothe your nerves, Mr. Winchester?"

Dean realized he was beginning to sweat. "I noticed that I had coffee breath." His anxiety levels were escalating higher than he needed at the moment. It wasn't even that he was scared of telling the ambiguously European, sexy boss to go eat a dick, it was just the sweats that happened to be delayed and the risk of losing a secure job was rising higher than ever.

"I see, we all have our demons. Mine happens to be novellas with dramatically gorgeous people, red wine, and a box of tissues to cry into but I leave that at home. Do you see my point, Mr. Winchester?" MacLeod continued to savor the moment with unnecessary praise to his tone. It would have been bad if he were scolding him, but the praise is what bothered him even more.

"Yes, sir."

"Good, now scurry along, I have lots of things to make me look busy and you are one of my least favorite. "

So much for the praise. Dean nodded and left his office. He booked it to the bathroom as he felt his collar tightening around his throat. He felt as if he had barely made it as he gripped the sink, balancing himself on the edge. His stomach turned when he looked himself in his bloodshot eyes. The puffiness had gotten worse as his nose and bags were bright red. He couldn't hide the fact that he looked like shit. He splashed cold water onto his face and neck in attempts to soothe the storm of stomach acid.

It took several minutes of borderline gagging before he could stand up straight. He definitely wasn't going to be driving Baby anytime soon. Dean trudged back to his seat, the hot garbage had transformed into a dumpster fire. There he rested his head until someone needed another file to be approved and quitting time.

He called an Uber at exactly five o'clock as he signed out of his computer and finished his hours for the day. He spat out his address as quickly as he could, tucking away his mouth wash. By the time he was finished cleaning up for the day, the uber was waiting for him in the parking lot out front. He hopped in feeling the dumpster fire simmer down back to hot garbage as his excitement and relief slowly peaked over his storming stomach. Dean hopped out, telling him that if he wanted he could keep the meter running so he could change real quick. He agreed and pulled out his phone.

He had barely reached his front door when his brother called. He groaned, tilting his head back and slumping his shoulders. He half debated calling him back tomorrow so he didn't have to deal with his 'are you okay's when he was still waking up. The call went to voice mail and Dean was changing into a different dirty shirt so he could go to his favorite place on earth. Novak's, the home of the best whiskey, the cleanest ice and the one place where he isn't banned from using the karaoke machine.

He tossed his phone onto his nightstand to charge for the night and hopped into the uber once again. He called in his own personal heaven, feeling like the day may actually turn around for the first time. The uber watched him with worry on his face as Dean pulled out the cash for a tip, "Taxation is theft, bud,"

"You want me to wait for you?" the driver asked as he took the tip.

Dean waved him off and walked through the door that banned minors and anyone who had the eighty-six of shame. Immediately he was greeted with cigarette smoke and the sounds of billiard balls clacking against each other. He smiled at the men playing pool as they acknowledged his entrance. He sat in his usual stool, the only one that wasn't sticky or squeaky.

While he pulled a couple of bills out of his wallet, Castiel, or just Cas, greeted him with Dean's usual and brute honesty, "You look like shit."

"Thanks, you're not lookn' too bad yourself." He smiled and shot it down, tossing the ice over his shoulder as the fire ran down his throat and warmed him from the inside out. "Cas, my best friend, tell me who the fuck does that British douche think he is? 'you're one of my least favorites' fuck him, am I right?"

Cas didn't reply to the question at hand, "Going to work in the condition you're in, or worse, may just end up drawing the line. You're going to lose your job soon. " He dropped a few more cubes into his glass and poured him another drink

"You and Mr. MacLeod should have a conversation about workplace sensitivity."Dean gave a mock accent as he took that one down too, though this one he was savoring a little longer before he put down the money for the full bottle.

The silence that fell over his corner soothed his bad Thursday as the clacking fell into white noise. He felt more and more like he was home by the moment as he continued to pour himself drinks. The ice was gone long before he reached the halfway mark. The landline rang from under the bar, bringing Cas back to Dean's corner. He answered with his usual business tone before looking around the bar, "You said plaid?" He landed back onto Dean, "Yeah, he's here... A half hour ago... Yeah, " he handed the phone over to Dean and walked away to tend to another customer.

"Hello?"

"Dean," shit, "What the hell man, are you okay?" worry filled the other end of the line as it was clear that there was the edge of panic in his voice.

"Yeah, I left my phone at home for a reason, Sam. You don't have to check up on me. " He filled his glass again, wondering how fast he would be here if he hung up.

"I haven't heard from you, you've been awol for a couple of months. What's going on with you?"

Dean reached over the bar and hung the phone back on the line and ordered another bottle. "Fucking sick of everyone acting like there's something wrong. Of course there's shit wrong, I haven't got laid in at least a year, I hate my fucking job, I have to act like some fucking puppet for MacLeod's sake, " He sighed, looking down into the glass, "It ain't like anyone cares about a grown man's problems with work, right? The more I complain the more pathetic everything is." He took a drink, savoring the fire. Cas nodded to acknowledge that he was listening.

The night continued like that until the first bottle was finished. He turned around, carrying the rest of his glass to the pool tables, a cocky smile playing on his lips as he leaned over to a guy who had been there for the night. He was a big guy. His leather vest said something about being a Road Hog and the teardrop under his eye paired with the webs around his face told enough of his story, "fifty says I could beat your ass in a single play."

He turned to face Dean, scanning him like a barcode. "You're drunk."

Dean laughed a little too loudly as he leaned in a little closer, "You're scared of a drunk guy beating you in pool?"

"No, I could kill you and make it look like you did it yourself, I just don't want you to hurl on my table." He turned away and made his shot, striking in a couple of stripes.

Dean took another drink, finishing what was left in the glass. The rational decision maker in him said to go home, but the gambler said more. "Alrighty then, didn't know you were the type to check in this early, sorry about that," He smiled as he turned away, heading back to the bar.

The reply he was hoping for didn't come in the form of words; instead, the crack that rang out throughout the room wasn't from the billiard balls. The guy had swung the pool cue low and cracked it at the back of Dean's thighs making him collapse onto his knees on the hardwood floor. Dean didn't have time to cry out before he hit the floor. With a bottle already in his system, he didn't even have time to put his hands out in front of him. The second the glass in his hand shattered Cas had the phone in his hand.

Nothing was said between the Road Hog and the bartender, he simply nodded and left the broken cue on the table and left the bar.

Dean laid on the floor for a moment, processing the events that had just occurred. Within a few moments, he was able to crawl back to his stool and pull himself up. Cas was on the phone, giving the address of the bar.

"You calling my mom 'cause of some friendly banter?" Dean tried to laugh off the event, but he already knew that it wouldn't just be his pride that would be hurting in the morning. Dean reached over the bar and grabbed a fresh glass to fill the now shaming silence, "Come on! Party isn't over just cause someone got their panties in a bunch." He called over his shoulder before taking the full glass like a long shot. Billiard balls continued to clack with mutters filling over them. Dean eased himself onto the stool and continued to take in as much as he could before whoever Cas had called could take it away. 

The night ended without his knowledge of it. He woke up at home at seven-thirty in the clothes he was wearing last night. Dirt covered his chest and knees as though he fell outside, he didn't remember going back out. He sat up to turn off his phone's alarm, but his muscles screamed as though they had gone through the heavy load cycle in a dryer. He pulled himself back up to sit up, the room swaying from under his feet. "One foot..." he trailed off as a wave of nausea washed over him, his stomach cramping with fire. He swallowed what came up and moved to the shower, breathing between burps and swaying between articles of clothing. Today the shower didn't kick on.

He moved out of the room and into another dirty shirt and his usual slacks, slathering his pits with deodorant. With that, he called an uber for his usual trip to work. He noticed he barely had enough for a tip, but it was okay. Payday was coming soon. "Wash, rinse, and repeat, Winchester." He told himself as he flopped down into his chair. Eyes were on him as he picked up for the day. Nothing could be worse than the usual dumpster fire.


	2. Chapter 2

The woman on the other end of the line wasn't the only factor that would lead Dean to quit his job. The lights, the stares, the out-of-order coffee machine, and now an argumentative client whose demands can not be met. It was like working in retail all over again. 

"I don't see why you people need my tax information. I had an accident, the report was made and I pay my bill every month. I even sent pictures through the app!" she was clearly having just as rough of a day as he was but regardless of a rough day: tax fraud is a serious crime. Sadly, getting straight to the point wasn't an option. Most of the time, when mentioning the possibility of fraud, the customer would often get even more defensive and demand to speak with another agent or the manager. Already being on the shit list, Dean wanted to avoid that as much as possible. 

Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as a wave of nausea hit him, "Ma'am, I need your tax forms to see where the deductions can be claimed as well as what your credit allows. I need to do this legally, so please, you can send it today or tomorrow through the online form that you can find in your membership app or and I can guarantee that you will have your statements on deduction and coverage by next week or the week after. "

"That's bullshit!" She pulled the phone away from her face to curse about Dean to another person in the room for a couple of minutes. "Is there any way that you could do it without it?"

His nausea refused to subside, he tried pushed down a burp that accidentally led into the microphone, "If there was, I assure you that I would have already processed you, ma'am."

The second Dean walked into the office today, he was met with his stack of files from yesterday (and Wednesday) with highlighted sections of red-flags, missing information, expired information and much more. With the week's old whiskey speaking in tongues in his ear and a woman going ballistic in the other, the regret of the previous night weighed heavily on his pounding head. Somewhere between her rants and raves about privacy and whatever amendment she was on, Dean hung up the line and left towards the bathroom. He didn't care if he'd hear it for this one, she wasn't cooperating and quite rude too. If Mr. MacLeod had to put up with half the shit, plus the hangover? Shit, he wouldn't have lasted nearly as long as Dean had. 

He splashed his face with cold water, taking in the wake up slap. He knew he should have called in sick, but money buys the space and booze. He took a long drink from the faucet, not really minding the guy walking in after him. Dean made eye contact with him in the mirror before he walked into the stall. "Have fun," Dean called before leaving the bathroom, smiling to himself. 

He flopped back down at his desk and rubbed his temples. If he had the power too, he'd turn off every light in the building. But instead, he drank some of his mouth wash and turned to the next fucked up file. It was missing the incident report, which he was glad that he could just look up in the database rather than make an entire phone call. It took a couple of minutes with specific keywords regarding her case, and before long Dean was hovering over the printer for an Elieen Leahy. The name sounded familiar, but he was too hungover to really care. The files wore down by the hour and he found that he probably should stop showing up to work hungover and dealing with people's sensitive information. Some of the files were just shuffled, but even then that could have been disastrous for John and Jane Doe. He hardly noticed the figure looming over his desk. It wasn't until he noticed everyone else in the office watching him when he looked up and saw McLeod looking through his newly finished files. 

There wasn't much exchanged between the two. He switched between files, comparing information before being satisfied with what he was seeing. He dropped it back onto the stack. He gave a smile before walking back to his office. 

Dean watched him strut passed every other cubical as though he were taunting him. "Creep," Dean mumbled under his breath as he went back to his work. He knew that the last five years haven't been Employee of the Month material, but he believed that he hadn't done anything fire worthy either. Sure mixed filed and missing information could cost some money, but that didn't mean he was the only making the same mistake to be targetted. He shook his head and took another drink of his mouth wash making him feel a little better. He at least smelled a little better. 

The clock seemed to move as slow as molasses in a freezer and the files never seemed to lower in stature. Dean felt as though he were swimming in work and time, but with the help of the handy-dandy mouth wash, he found that he felt a little warm in his seat and the awkward accidents to be a little too hilarious for him to be reviewing at work. He bit his tongue as he read about a woman who spilled her coffee in her lap, causing her to run a red light and straight into a pole. He knew from the medical attention that she needed due to the accident was an indicator that it was probably traumatic for her as she would also be needing physical therapy for many months, but he couldn't help himself. 

"I'm going to hell," He mumbled under his breath, wiping a tear from his eye. It was like laughing at a train wreck, but compared to how fucked he was at the moment, he wasn't too far off from a train wreck himself. The thought of a train wreck laughing at someone's misfortune was a statement on its own that he felt a little too spaced to try to put together. But the visual, despite not being able to dissect it, was enough for his mind to trail off on his own sense of humor. Before long, he was amusing himself with his own imagination and the pictures attached to the reports. It was primarily the various ways of how a train would then crash directly into the scene, for example, the woman would spill her coffee onto her lap, hit the pole and then after a brief pause, an entire train would fall from the sky and land onto her car. Or the slow-motion fender-bender when a man's breaks cut on a slight hill, making it slowly roll into another man's car. With a pause of awkward exchange of information, the train would come ramming down the street, wiping out both cars. He giggled himself into an awkward situation of having a coworker look over his shoulder and not understand the context in which he thought it was funny. He decided it was probably for the best if he didn't explain it aloud that he wanted there to be a catastrophe in the picture. 

With the conclusion of his laugh fest, he continued to fill in the woman with the coffee's information. He polished off his Listerine as he did so, not realizing until he stood up to linger over the way-to-slow printer that he was accidentally drunk off said Listerine. He gripped the side of the cubical as he found his legs to have their minds elsewhere and his feet to be too big. He did his best to not sway to the printer, but he tilted more than a teeter-totter with a line of children. 

He tripped over himself but was grateful he didn't make himself topple. Suspiciously minty isn't how he wanted to go out. He swayed as he leaned over the printer, catching "discreet" glances from over the cubical walls. Dean shook his head but instantly regretted it. He wanted to show them that he was disappointed in them for being that fucking nosey, but nausea washed over him and he felt himself tip a little too hard to the left. He visibly stumbled as he tried to balance himself. His face heated as he heard people stand from their chairs to dart forward to catch him. All eyes were on him and there was no way that he was leaving this office without being suspiciously minty. The sweat was coming down like a rain of bullets as he was doing exactly what he was grateful for not doing. He felt a hand on his shoulder with a low, husky whisper that would make his blood run cold, "Winchester, why don't you go home and sleep off the Listerine?"

"Sir," Dean started as he turned to Mr. McLeod, but the belch that would erupt from his throat would be a little too literal as he puked the arm that held him steady. His throat burned and his stomach twisted the rest of his liquid diet out. He couldn't stop as he hunched forward onto his boss's shoes. Dean tipped over onto the floor, the pinkish tint that was fading in and out of his vision did little to concern him as much as it did for Crowley McLeod. 

When Dean came back around he found himself face to face with the boss that still smelled like Dean's stomach with a hint of mint while sitting on the floor. He couldn't catch what Crowley was saying, but the stone expression told him enough. Dean set a hand onto his shoulder to help steady himself up off the floor, but his legs didn't quite help as he couldn't even sit up anymore. The words around him started to swirl into focus as the acidic belch began to rise. Dean took a deep breath to steady what he could as he attempted to listen to what his co-workers spoke. There was something about an ambulance and paper towels and that was enough for Dean. No one was going to slap a hospital bill on his lap, not now. 

He tried for a second time and this time his butt lifted off the floor and with a little more effort than what he would like to admit, he was steadying himself on his feet once again. He caught what his boss was saying as he tried again, leaning close to him, but out of vomit range, "Go home. We'll speak about this on Monday. I recommend that you fester up an excuse at the doctor's office while you go." 

Dean didn't reply as he opened his phone for an Uber. He stumbled his way to the elevator, almost falling over again. The screen was hard to focus on as the text was too small and the app pictures were too blurry to tell. He closed his eyes for a moment, not realizing he was standing in front of the closed doors of the elevator. Karen pushed the button for him, "You're not planning on driving, are you?"

Dean looked up at her, closing an eye to help his focus. He held up his phone as his words refused to slump out. She nodded and lead him into the elevator, "Call someone if I don't come back in thirty," she called over her shoulder.

Dean didn't really pay much attention to what she had to say, the room was fading again and he wanted to sit down. She led him out of the elevator and towards the parking garage, holding him steady in order to prevent him from tipping over. 

He didn't remember how he got home, he only remembered waking up in the middle of the night to vomit some more and fighting not to go to the hospital. He didn't even remember sleeping in his bathtub. But when morning came, he was glad that the worst of it was over for now. 

Dean reached around the edges of the bathtub, feeling his head swirl. It wouldn't entirely be inappropriate for sand to fall out of his mouth as it felt like he had eaten an entire desert and it definitely wouldn't have been the priority of his concerns. But it was still unpleasant enough for him to try to drink some water. With as much effort as he could possibly muster, Dean was able to crawl out from the tub and shimmy himself towards the sink. It took several beats for him to muster up any more effort to climb up it, but when he did, he hated himself that much more. The knob squeaked and only a spider came rushing out from his pipes. The rush of the eight-legged semi-friend startled him enough to fall back on to his rump then back. The room swirled with his stomach once again as he laid there on the cool tile. 

This is what rock bottom feels like.

He fell back asleep on the tile as the thought faded out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meowdy! Happy Easter to those who celebrate! Sorry for the break between posts, it's hard to get a rhythm going when college is calling most of the time. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A five-year cycle of going between the bar stool and an office chair leads Dean closer and closer to the edge. Cas, the bartender, maybe the only one who can keep him on his feet.

Monday rolled by without making a sound and the only thing that was going to get Dean off the warm enough bath mat was the hard banging on the door. It sounded like it was coming from the inside walls of his head but he doubted that his mental break would be with someone calling for rent. He managed to stand up enough to make his way to the door before using the frame to support his weight. The pounding was definitely coming from the door. The mere vibration of it through the frame was enough to make him feel as though he were standing on a paddle boat in the great Atlantic. He opened it before it could throw him off course again only to find a red-faced Land Lord. 

"Finally," he started before he could look at Dean. But when he did, the red in his face quickly faded down into a ghostly white, guilty face. Dean guessed that he looked as bad as he felt. I mean sure he was soaked with sweat and his breath smelled like he had a bowl of hot ass, but it was a little hard to believe that just by the way he looked he could deter the anger from a landlord whose property has barely been habitable for at least three weeks. "Hey, uh, do you have anyone to call?"

Dean was a little too focused on how awful his breath must have been standing three inches from the guy to hear what he said, "Call?"

Brandon or Brett, Dean couldn't remember, looked as though he were being asked to tell a mom her entire family died, "Look, you haven't paid rent in months and you haven't even bothered with an excuse to cover the fact that that's where your money is going. I'm gonna have to evict you and it's passed your thirty days. Do you have anyone that you can call?"

If garbage had a child with horse shit, and that kid decided to procreate with Sam's cooking and then that kid lit itself on fire: it would perfectly describe his mood. Speaking of sam, "Look, if you give me an outlet to charge my phone and ten minutes to pack a bag I'll be gone and you can throw my shit out. I'll have my car out by eleven." 

Brad (?) looked as though someone casually accepted an Olympic gold medal, "Dude, how hungover are you?" 

Dean thought for a moment. The last time he was really aware of the time was at work when he... He cringed as remembered puking on his boss's shoes, "Look, I haven't been awake since Friday, so if you want to ask me about the day you're gonna have to give me a moment longer."

"Thank god you aren't driving. Down at the lobby behind the plant and to the left of the Giger Tribute print is an outlet. You got half an hour and nothing more."

With a shut of the door, Dean was left wondering where he would be able to go. Sure there was Sam but the first thing he would do is lecture him about how there, "... will not be an ounce of liquor allowed in [his] home..." (Every holiday since 2010 Winchester). He didn't linger too long as he scooped up all of his clothes and threw them in a trash bag. It took less than five minutes for him to gather the things he loved including the keys to Baby; even though when it wasn't much time on his feet, it still took everything he had left out of him. He didn't have the energy to find a backpack or something but he did have enough to scrounge for his last couple of dollars. 

In total, he was leaving with as much as he cared about at this moment, forty-six dollars and fifty-three cents, and the matching set of charger and phone. He smiled as he realized that it would be last drink for a while if he were to actually muster up enough petty and prayers to give the totally-not-right-bastard a call. He stumbled his way to the lobby and assumed that the painting with the close up of a woman with mechanical-looking hair with snakes was the tribute print Dan (definitely not) talked about before. He wondered why he hadn't seen it before, but now as he's looking at it, he couldn't take his eyes off it. Sure it was a little creepy but there was something about her that made him wish he had seen it before this moment. It was only when his phone buzzed to notify him of its death that he looked away and found the outlet. He plugged in and found a spot to hang out until the landlord came out. 

He began to articulate a plan, he'd pay for his uber and get his fill at Novak's, then he'd go down the street to the gas station and try for a job there. Or maybe he should find a laundry mat then try for a job. He smiled at himself. Novak's, laundry mat, gas station... but where was he going to find a place to sleep? He already insulted a roadhog in attempts to scam him, so the usual kindness from bikers that goes viral over the internet went out the window. He could find a spot outside of the joint or find a pickup truck with a for sale sign there and pop a squat. He didn't mind having to fight spiders for a spot to sleep. Yeah, there's plenty of those around town, it couldn't be too hard. It would wrinkle everything if he used his clothes as a pillow, but then again, he had been going to work in dirty laundry for the last several weeks. So he guessed that it balanced out in the end. He yawned as he watched his phone suddenly vibrate again to let him know that it was alive. Just twenty more minutes until he wouldn't have anything over his head again beside a bar. 

His stomach twisted and growled, but he was too tired to care at the moment. He just wanted a drink and a place to go to sleep. The landlord came around the corner before Dean could doze off again, "Hey, you got everything?"

Dean shifted, blinking himself back to being aware of his situation, " Yeah, I'm just waiting for my phone to charge, you said it was cool," the guy nodded and began to walk away, but it was at that moment that Dean would regret ever talking to someone, "Adam!"

"Yeah?" the landlord responded without a hint of confusion on his face. 

"Nothing, just uh, thanks." Dean's face slowly heated as he realized that he did that out loud.

Adam the landlord nodded and walked away. Dean simply repeated the plan back to himself in order to get his mind off of this moment. Novak's, Laundry mat, Job, truck. He repeated it a couple more times until he began to doze off once again. 

Suddenly there was a shake of his shoulder and Dean was startled awake. He was met by Adam's face three inches from his own, "Hey, I went ahead and called you a cab. He's a great guy and he already knows I'll pay him for the trip. Get somewhere safe, yeah?"

Dean gathered his bearing for a moment as he felt himself stick to the chair before nodding and thanking him. With that he stood, wavered, and headed into the cab to follow through with his plan. The moment he stepped foot into Novak's he felt at ease. The cigarette smoke, the clacking billiard balls, and the commoners in their usual spot where all pieces that he would have taken with him to leave his apartment. Cas took one look at him and for a moment there was relief and disappointment written all over his face. Thankfully he didn't immediately mention the, for a lack of a better word, luggage when Dean sat down. He smiled as he counted out the money for a couple of shots and slid it on the bar counter. He looked around and knew that everything was going to be alright. However, Cas didn't pour his drink. 

Dean started to worry that the incident with the road hog last week cost him his last resort in this town. He wondered if it was the clothes in a trash bag or the fact that Cas was starting to think that Dean didn't own a car or could never drive again. He took a deep breath and tried to distract himself with his phone, though he found that there were only worried messages from Sam. He felt bad for insulting his cooking at that moment since he was probably the last person who actually cared about his problem, but it was quickly pushed aside for the possibility of having a drink. 

"Hey, dry costumer over here, bud." Dean watched him carry the glass over to him with an expression that said more than he would ever need to. 

It was either the soft clink of the glass against the bar or the withdrawal that sent chills up his spine; regardless, he wasn't expecting Cas to refuse his money. "You lost your job and home, didn't you?" Dean was staring at the empty glass as Cas spoke, but found himself unable to look anywhere else, "You came here, of all places, after this. Dean, what are you doing?"

He couldn't speak but instead slid the quarters closer towards him. Cas stared at him for several moments, "Dean. I will refuse service to you if you do not tell me what the hell you are doing."

"I'm getting a drink, hopefully."

Cas stared at him for another moment before sliding his money back to him, "Dean, I can't serve you a drink." Dean looked up for a moment but allowed him to speak, "You don't know this, but I went overseas as a pastor and a soldier. I prayed for men both here and there. Some of them I lost back there, some I lost to a glass. I can't serve you this drink. "

"Look, you're not going to lecture me out of drinking. I'm fine, I'll get back up like I always do, and I'll move on."

"You're sweating so hard there's a sweat stain on your ass, Dean. The shirt that you're wearing? not only have you been wearing it since last week, but it was originally white. It's yellow now, Dean. Who are you trying to convince?" There were several beats before Cas spoke again, "Is your phone charged?"

"What?"

"Your phone, is it charged?" Dean awkwardly nodded and slide it out of his pocket to show him as proof, "Why? Why bother charging your phone when you can't even change your clothes. Why did you charge it when you could have asked someone to call you a cab?" Dean thought for a moment as he remembered mocking Sam on his no liquor rule before. He didn't answer there either, suddenly the atmosphere no longer felt like home and the empty glass was still demanding to be filled.

"You still have so much to lose if you don't get your shit together, Winchester."

"Last round? Then I'll grab my shit and call my brother?" Dean offered a smile, but it quickly faded as Cas's face still remained stone-like. He licked his lips and took his quarters back into his pocket. There was nothing left to do when he was still staring him down.

The phone buzzed for several more moments before the familiar voice came through the speaker. With an eye witness to what he was saying, there was nothing left but the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thank you for reading this far! I just got to summer so I hope there will be much more time for writing and for updating/editing! Thank you for sticking along and I hope you enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to check out my Wattpad @Harleyreadit and my Tumblr @Fae-boulous! I would really appreciate it if you stopped by and said hello, left a request, or even a question about anything! Thank you for reading, see you on Sunday!


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